Surrender
by Talktidy
Summary: A morning exercise


**Surrender**

**By Talktidy**

That morning at Pemberley, Colonel Fitzwilliam felt better than he had for weeks; strength was returning to his limbs — even the notion of breakfast appealed. He thought a turn about the garden would sharpen his appetite, and so it was that, leaning heavily on his cane, he tottered out to partake of the morning air.

Fitzwilliam drew in a deep breath, letting the warmth of the early sun percolate through his bones. The first breath of summer had come to Pemberley, ripe with the promise of warm weather, of a beautiful day. A bucolic idyll that did not lend itself to the contemplation of heedless slaughter, or recollections of the faces of the men he'd lost. He drew in another lungful of the clean air, pushed his thoughts away from blood and ruin, and surveyed the tumult of colour displayed before him. Horticulture was a discipline that ordinarily held little interest, but both the colours and the scents of the flora in the garden were deeply soothing. He breathed in deeply. It seemed he was glad to be alive after all.

He was glad of Darcy's generosity.

He ventured further, set himself to follow the path that circled the garden. A calculating eye measured the distance he should be able to accomplish, then from bitter experience, he savagely halved the estimate. It wouldn't do to fall flat on his face; it would alarm the staff, who were already overly solicitous of his comfort. A modest distance away a stone bench offered a place to rest and he obligingly made that his target. It was as well he'd moderated his ambitions, because by the time he'd lowered his rump to the welcome surface, the pain had hit a crescendo, his legs were shaky and sweat drenched his collar. He stretched his right leg, easing a cramp. His doctors agreed the limb would never be the same, but he minded not. Seven weeks ago, he thought a relentless decline and a lingering death was all his future held, until Darcy had brought him from his father's house in town, brought him here to Pemberley.

If it were not that he was in a bad way, he would have balked at imposing himself on Darcy and his new wife, but he had not the fortitude to withstand Darcy's officious warmth. There was a reason Darcy was more brother than cousin. A less generous assessment of his own frailties might incite anyone to question if endowing Darcy with a closer family tie served merely to justify his own indiscretions. He wished he were able to excise from his memory the night he was so unmanned, he broke down and wept like a child. Darcy had astonished him by taking him into a filial embrace, lending him strength. All pride, all dignity had absented itself at what he was come to, yet, he marked that night as the moment his recovery began.

A light, girlish shriek made him start, quickly followed by another such, and then the rumble of a man's laugh. Mayhap a turn about the garden had not been a prudent choice, for above him was the master bedchamber. In the warm weather the windows were open full wide and his cousin and his lady were clearly at sport.

He was a soldier, one who'd seen sights — not all of which might be laid at the door of the common soldiery — that would have curdled the sensibilities of polite society. But what liberties of curtailed privacy could be forgiven in the field were indefensible in his cousin's home and, in the normal way of things, he would have promptly retired to the breakfast room, but that goal seemed an improbably distant one at this juncture. He censured himself to close his ears to any sounds that might issue forth, yet with embarrassment realised he was actually listening with greater attention.

"Lizzy!" The tone of voice prodded a memory to surface: a cornered eight year old Darcy, with only the Darcy hauteur to protect him, being threatened by his bigger Fitzwilliam cousins with a dunking in the pond for some forgotten transgression.

"All is lost. I fear you must surrender, sir."

"Never!" came a breathless reply, quickly followed by a girlish shriek that he wonderingly recognised as not issuing from Mrs Darcy's lips. Helpless laughter followed and Fitzwilliam remembered his cousin was ticklish.

"Come, sir. Capitulate!" Rapidly followed by another cry. This time undeniably uttered by Mrs Darcy. Fitzwilliam sighed. Slap and tickle.

"Hah! You overplayed your hand, madam!" But this challenge seemed to engender a cried response in a distinctly different register. Fitzwilliam flushed, lurched to his feet, ignoring the pain flaring in his leg and headed in the direction of breakfast, but his faltering steps weren't quick enough for him to miss the sounds of his cousin and his lady in the throes of passion.

A/N: Hi there! Any comments are very welcome, even if you didn't like this – in fact a negative review (providing you state some details of what falls short) is probably better for me at this stage, since I am trying to improve.


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